New Zealand heli-hunting not for the meek

Spontaneous adventure proves to be too much for avowed city girl

There's no better way to see a place than from the air, preferably a helicopter.

Photograph by: Caralyn Campbell
, Postmedia News

I'm sitting at the kitchen table in a log ranch house where animal heads stare glassy-eyed from the living room walls. A framed photograph of Bonanza's Cartwright family, posed outside a similar log house on the Ponderosa, hangs near the kitchen door.

This house is on a large cattle ranch, in the middle of "seriously nowhere," a few miles down the road from the village of Franz Josef in New Zealand's glacier country. Franz Josef is a small village, somewhat reminiscent of Banff.

We arrived in the village the day before, after a scenic train ride from Christchurch to Greymouth, where we picked up a rental car for the 180-kilometre drive along a twisty mountain road.

We spent the night in a comfy room with a king-sized bed and a soaker tub, at the aptly named Franz Josef Glacier Country Retreat.

Surrounded by cattle pastures, with distant lake views, we had two days here and it was the first time on this whirlwind New Zealand odyssey that we really felt relaxed. That feeling would be fleeting.

The next morning, after a fabulous three-course country breakfast in the dining room at this gracious inn, we headed for town and a helicopter tour of the Fox and Franz Josef glaciers.

Our Scottish pilot, intent on scaring the wits out of us, flew straight toward the peak's edge twice, zipping up and over and down again just at the last second, giving us a gut-fluttering 20-minute ride over stunningly rugged terrain. We landed on the glacier for a quick snowball toss before heading back to town for lunch at the local pub.

En route we stopped at a bookstore to find a New Zealand cookbook - I'm an obsessive collector. We were looking to recreate a few Kiwi specialties, specifically the venison salami that had us both smitten. When I asked the kid behind the counter for the most authentic New Zealand cookbook, he confessed he didn't know which to choose; he was from B.C.

Down the road at the pub, our waitress told us she was from Calgary, and we told her the story about the kid in the bookstore. The guy standing next to us overheard and said he was from B.C. as well.

Small world. Anyway, the guy from B.C. was talking to a local guy - a helicopter pilot - who happened to know a butcher who made venison salami. Serendipity at play.

"Stop by my house for a beer on your way back from town," he said.

"It's just down the road from where you're staying. There's a helicopter next to the driveway - you can't miss it. I might not be back yet, but I'll let my wife know you're coming and she'll give you directions to the butcher's house."

So, we had a plan. A short distance from town, we spotted the helicopter and turned down a long driveway. The missus was expecting us and invited us inside.

As she was writing out the directions to the butcher's house in the next town, we heard the deafening sound of a jet helicopter landing. It was then I discovered our pilot friend flew trophy hunters from around the world, intent on bagging Himalayan tahr and chamois.

Both of these animals were introduced by Europeans in the early 1900s, for the sole purpose of sport hunting.

Because their growing numbers are destroying native foliage, they are considered pests in these parts. The pilot asked Jon if he'd like to go for a ride. "Hell yeah," Jon said without a second thought.

The fact that he was wearing shorts and flying in glacier country near dark didn't enter his mind. Off he went for the adventure of his life.

This adventure, I'm glad I didn't know at the time, also involved Jon jumping out of the hovering helicopter (from four feet off the ground) to flush out a tahr from under the brush. He then had to slide down a steep slope on his butt to get to a clearing where the pilot could find him and then pull himself back up into the hovering craft.

Back at the ranch house, as the sky darkened, I was trying painfully to make small talk, but it was clear I was out of my element.

Finally, thankfully, the missus detected the distant drone of the helicopter, grabbed a half-dozen frosty beers, set them on a tray and headed for the door.

I restrained myself from running and followed her into the bug-ridden night, the dogs trotting along beside me.

By the time we reached the hangar, two animals were hooked on a rack and a ranch hand was deftly skinning one of them. The hunting party swigged beer and talked excitedly about the chase, while the dogs waited eagerly on the sidelines for bloody scraps. Nothing is wasted here.

I wanted to bolt for the car. This rugged pioneer country was no place for a city slicker sissy girl like me.

After a bit of silent prodding (not to mention dagger stares at Jon, who was enjoying the camaraderie) we thanked our hosts and headed back to our very civilized inn, where I barely slept a wink for the wild dreams.

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